


Between us is nothing but grace

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [35]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hugs, Kid Fic, Retirement, old men being sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are retired and growing older and deafer and blinder. There are still adventures to look forward to, though, through the hearts of their grandchildren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between us is nothing but grace

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from Kristen Hersh’s Beestung

John dozed, only partially aware of four of his five senses operating around him. The hum of bees and a gentle breath in his ears. The scent of grass and the beehives and the cooling thermos of tea. The lingering taste of honey straight off the honeycomb on the back of his tongue. The warmth of summer sunshine on his face and the pressure of his back against Sherlock’s chest.

The gentle breath was a little wheezy. That was Sherlock. Or maybe it was his own breath. He couldn’t always tell them apart these days. Not that it mattered. They were old men and they had wheezy days, especially when Sherlock had been conducting dusty experiments in the kitchen, as he had been this morning. They’d retreated to the yard while they aired the cottage. They’d sipped tea and eaten honeycomb, and laughingly complained about honey dripping onto clothes and the blanket and Sherlock’s book on bees, which he read aloud to John, and it had been very pleasant. Then John, leaning against Sherlock as he read, had succumbed to drowsiness and here he was, nodding off.

Sherlock was very quiet. Listening, apparently, to the bees, or to John’s breathing, or maybe just to the sounds of the Sussex countryside. Sherlock was getting a little hard of hearing, though he wouldn’t admit it, so he appreciated these times of quietude, where he could just sit and listen carefully to the faint sounds of his happy, lucky life.

John let his mind drift, dozed a little, content with the afternoon.

**

The air car huffed to an almost silent halt on the far side of the house, and its occupants stepped out onto the soft soil of the drive. It was likely that Sherlock and John hadn’t seen the car coming, not heard it land, quiet as it was, though Violet would not put any money on actually surprising the occupants of the Sussex cottage. This was an unannounced visit, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock wasn’t somehow expecting them.

She and Ford and their two children spotted the figures reclining on the picnic blanket and quietly, quietly, walked towards them, as though the afternoon hush had cast a spell.

Violet stood absolutely still on the lawn, looking at her fathers. For a moment her heart skipped – but no, look. Chests rose and fell. Those two old men were breathing yet.

She sometimes wondered if this is how it would end. Coming here to see them, to find them resting together in the yard, breaths and bodies and minds still, but together and smiling, like it was the best and most perfect way to go, with the best and most perfect company. She sort of hoped that this was how it might end for them, but she never thought on it for long, because she dreaded it too.

But this wasn’t the day. John was clearly asleep but Sherlock turned his head slightly to face them and, moving slowly so he wouldn’t disturb John, held a finger to his lips.

_Shh._

She smiled and nodded, and next to her, Ford grinned. In front of them, Hamish Donovan Watson-Holmes took his grandfather’s hint and, going into Stealth Mode, began to silently step across the grass. Sneaking up on his other grandfather.

Holding Ford’s hand, Seraphina Nirupa Holmes-Watson, six years old, watched her nine-year-old brother with a critical eye as he move like a furtive little mouse. Over the grass, past the vegetable patch full of tomatoes and beans. Phin was silent, though, holding her breath, trying to hold the sound of her own breathing in check. It wouldn’t do to give the game away now, oh no.

Grandad Sherlock’s eyes shone under his bushy white eyebrows at her, like they were sharing some grand joke, and she crinkled her eyes back at him.

Grandpa John snuffled in his sleep and seemed to settle himself more comfortably against Sherlock. Hamish froze and waited. And waited. And waited. As John’s breathing settled again, Hamish resumed his crafty advance.

And so they all waited for minute upon minute in the warm May air, while Hamish crept across the grass like a tiny, dark-skinned, fair-haired ninja.

He was so close now. So close. In a few steps he could reach out and touch Grandpa John’s foot. Just a little closer. And a little closer. And…

John’s eyes flew open and Hamish froze again. It seemed as though Grandpa John was staring straight at him, but the white film over his eyes meant that there was no way he could see Hamish. Hamish held his breath and willed his heart to slow its rhythm, in case Grandpa John could hear it.

John blinked and shifted his head against Sherlock’s chest, chin raised slightly. He inhaled. He exhaled.

He smiled.

With only a little groaning complaint from his joints, John sat up, leaned forward, stretched out his hand and tapped his grandson on the nose with his forefinger.

“No dice, champ,” he said with a laugh, “But the closest you’ve been yet.”

Hamish sighed. “How did you know, Grandpa?”

John, laughing, leaned back against Sherlock’s chest, and felt the rocking of Sherlock’s body as he laughed too.

“I can smell your mother’s perfume, and the bees make a different sound when people arrive. Your sneakers squeaked a little on the grass a moment ago, though I nearly missed that.”

Sherlock patted John’s arm, as though very proud of his progress in his skills of deduction.

“And then there was Sherlock,” added John.

“Me?”

John tilted his head slightly, his sightless eyes angled up towards Sherlock’s face. “Your heart rate only changes for one set of visitors. Potential clients don’t even get your blood up these days. The minute they came up the drive, your heart sped up. I only knew to listen for the other things when I felt that.”

“Are you calling me a sentimental old man?”

“I am.”

Sherlock snorted but, well, it was a fair cop.

Phin abandoned her brother’s attempt at stealth and instead hurtled across the yard yelling: “Grandiiiiiiiiies!!!”

Sherlock intercepted her small body before she trampled either of them, scooping an arm around her waist and tumbling her into John’s lap. John, braced for the impact (honestly, even blind he could hear what was going to happen, and feel Sherlock’s shift in posture) then squished her close and gave the top of her head a loud kiss. Phin giggled and burrowed into the double hug, her grandfathers wrapped round each other as much as her.

“How’s my little Martian?” John wriggled his nose against her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and shampoo.

“I’m a little Earther now,” Phin told him sternly, “Didn’t Grandy Sherlock tell you?”

“Grandy Sherlock did,” said Sherlock, matching her prim tone.

“Grandy Sherlock may have told me when I wasn’t in the house,” said John with a conspiratorial chuckle, “He does that sometimes.”

“Is that because he’s very old?” asked Phin breathlessly.

“No, my little Earther,” said John, giggling against her hair, “He talks like I’m there whether or not I’m there, and he’s always done that. I once went away to New Zealand for a fortnight and I don’t think he noticed.”

“I noticed,” protested Sherlock good naturedly, “Nobody made me tea for two weeks. It was very inconvenient.”

John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs and Sherlock jabbed John in the belly with long, pointy fingers, and John shoved backwards, toppling Sherlock underneath him, so they were there on the picnic blanket, Sherlock’s lankiness and pointy bones on the bottom, with a layer of small and podgy John between him and Phin, who was on top, trying to hug them both with her short arms and giggling.

Half a second later, Hamish had joined the puppy-pile, considerately shoving in from the side so as not to squish the foundation puppy. Sherlock wrapped one arm around Hamish and pulled him closer. John had one arm around Phin, the other reaching up to ruffle Hamish’s hair, and honestly, they looked ridiculous, those two old men and those two little kids. Ridiculous and happy.

John took a breath and moved his head to face the shadows that fell across them.

“If you two try to join in, you’ll kill us all,” he told Violet and Ford.

“We were thinking more along the lines of unstacking you,” said Ford affectionately, “As I’m pretty sure that without help, you and Sherlock will be stuck down there all night.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, making no effort to get up.

“Total rot,” agreed John. “Not _all_ night.”

It took a few minutes for everyone to extract themselves sufficiently to make vertical headway, then John took Sherlock’s arm and they led the way back to the house.

“Everything on track for the operation?” Violet asked as they stepped inside.

“Next week. Should just be in overnight, it’s a fairly straightforward procedure. The doctor says I should regain full sight in both eyes,” John replied, “Though, I don’t know. I think I might sort of miss this a bit.” John disengaged himself from Sherlock’s guiding grip and made his way to the kitchen, where he put on the kettle and brought out four cups from the cupboard.

“Miss what?”

“Oh. You know. Just listening to the world. It’s quite nice. Sherlock reads to me, and he’s been trying to teach me how to tell the flowers apart by scent.”

“Any luck with that?”

“None at all. He is most obtuse,” said Sherlock, busying himself with cold drinks for Hamish and Phin.

“Why is Grandy John making the tea?” Phin asked suddenly, “He can’t see the cups.”

“He likes making the tea,” said Hamish, pointing the signs out to his sister, “See, he knows where all the cups are, and the tea bags, and even where the milk is kept in the fridge. He doesn’t have to see to make tea.”

“And Grandy Sherlock’s tea is awful,” added John, “Whether he can see or not.”

“It is,” Sherlock agreed, “It’s been a 40 year campaign to avoid learning how to do it properly.”

“Git,” laughed John.

“And yet you make all the tea. I am a git, but I am a git who gets what he wants.”

“You’re a git who’ll get salt in your tea instead of sugar if you don’t play nice.”

“I’ll fetch the biscuits then, shall I? The biscuits that I made? Without burning the kitchen down, as some people who live here would have others believe happens on a daily basis.”

“I never said daily. I did say you managed an average of eight to ten incidents a year, ranging from small fires to the explosion of minor appliances and the occasional toxic spill. This morning was Incident Four. It’s only May. You have plenty of time to get your average up again.”

This gentle bickering went on the whole time that tea was made, cold drinks poured for Hamish and Seraphina, biscuits laid out, and Sherlock carrying everything to the sitting room on a tray.

Finally free of beverages, flatmates and grandchildren, he stepped up to fold Ford in a hug, then turned to kiss Violet.

“Oh…” he began.

“Oh, let me,” she said warningly, “Just this once, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it. Arched an eyebrow at Ford, who was giving his father a stern look, then beamed. “Of course.”

 “What? What is it?” John was just reaching out to give his daughter a hug when he felt the change of mood. “Is everything all right?”

“Never better,” Violet assured him. She wrapped her father in a fierce hug and said into his ear. “You’re going to be a Grandy again.”

John’s grin was infectious. “Are all the mums on their way, then?”

“Yep. Mum and Nirupa are getting a plane out to London today, and Sally’s going to meet them. They’ll drive down together tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s expression grew tense. Ford patted his hand. “We told Dad this morning. He said Mum should come without him. She doesn’t want to, but the doctors don’t think he should make the trip.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, almost absent-mindedly, “He’s been weak since the last bout of pneumonia…”

“He’s getting stronger again,” Ford told his other father. Sherlock waved his hand as though it didn’t really matter, but nobody was falling for that any more.

“I told Grandy Mycroft the whole periodical table today,” said Phin with an air of great accomplishment, “With music and actions and everything. He said I was _very clever_.”

“He laughs when she does the action for livermorium,” Hamish confided to them, “She grabs her liver and screws her face up like this.” He demonstrated. “Here Grandpa,” Hamish took John’s hands, placed them over his face then scrunched up his eyes and mouth again.

“Are you sure that’s livermorium?” John asked, “Feels more like ununseptium to me.

Hamish pushed his face into his grandpa’s hand. “No, this is ununseptium.”

“Ah yes, I detect the difference now.”

“Guess this one,” shouted Phin, running up to pat circles on John’s little pot belly.

“Why, surely that is rub-rub-rubidium.”

Phin giggled. “And this one?” She grabbed Grandy Sherlock’s hand and made him pat John’s belly in place of her own hand.  

“Holmium, of course,” laughed John, “Malleable, stable at room temperature and with magnetic properties.”

Sherlock jabbed John in the belly again. John grabbed the hand but then just grinned in the direction of Sherlock’s breathing.

Hugs were shared, then news, then plans for the Watson-Holmes’s recent return to the old mother planet while Ford and Violet took up their positions as Professors in the prestigious Institute of Xenobiology and Terraforming Sciences in Edinburgh.

Phin and Hamish took their part in the conversation: they had plenty of plans of their own. They had grown up splitting their time between the Mars colony and Earth. Living in just one gravity begged for all kind of experiments and adventures. Phin’s plans currently mainly involved establishing some kind of personal petting zoo containing all the animals she’d been unable to have on Mars. She’d already listed and named at least six cats she didn’t yet own, along with assorted rodents, farm animals, insect colonies and a tapir named Paracelsus, which she also didn’t own. There were intimations that Mycroft was going to make one available.

Hamish apparently planned to build a boat from blueprints he’d drawn up during his last visit to Earth. Boats on Mars were a bit pointless, what with the lack of aquatic places to sail them; not to mention the distinct lack of booty or potential pirate coves.

“You’ll need a crow’s nest,” Sherlock was saying, “And a gangplank.” They worked earnestly together on the plans for the ship, correcting any design defects and discussing types of wood and where to source it.

“And you have to remember,” said Sherlock suddenly, “When the new baby is born, just because there’s a big age gap, it doesn’t mean you know best because you’re the oldest. Don’t be pushy and don’t act like you’re in charge.” Hamish rolled his eyes.

“I know,” he said with exaggerated patience, “Grandpop Mycroft already said. And he said if I want to be a pirate I’m allowed, and he won’t try to stop me, and that I should ask you about getting a hat.”

Sherlock blinked at the boy. Blinked some more. Blinked… then closed his eyes. Pressed them shut. Opened them.

“Well, yes, I think I have something suitable in a trunk upstairs, if you want to look for it after supper. I may have a cutlass too, now I think about it.”

“Can I have a zookeeper’s hat?” asked Phin, “And can the new baby be in my zoo? And can we call it Wilhemina? Even if it’s a boy? I’ll need an administrator and someone to train the monkeys.”

“What will you be doing?” John asked.

“Lion taming,” Phin said unhesitatingly. “You have to be clever to make lions behave.” She frowned and considered. “And I’ll need someone to sing harmonies when I sing all the animals to sleep at night.”

“Won’t Hamish do that for you?”

“Don’t be silly, Grandy John. Hamish will play the drums when he’s not being a pirate. I’ll play guitar and sing the lead, and Wilhelmina will play the piano like Grandy Mycroft and sing harmony.”

“Of course,” John grinned.

“And Grandy Sherlock can play the violin for my bees when he visits.”

“I see. Do I get to do anything?”

“Silly Grandy,” Phin tapped him on the mouth, “I need you to sing harmonies until Wilhelmina is old enough.”

And at that point, the afternoon dissolved into making up versus of the Improbable Song, adapted for zoology and pirating.

Violet and Ford leaned against each other, watching their children and their fathers sing ridiculous songs. Ford patted Violet’s belly, rubbing his thumb over the as-yet small swell.

“Wasn’t Wilhelmina the name of your lead surgeon’s goldfish?”

“It was.”

“Hmm.”

“But Mina is a pretty name, don’t you think?”

“Mina.”

“Mina Mary Watson-Holmes.”

“Or William Gregory?”

“That’s a bit run of the mill for this family, don’t you think?”

“Well, there was a great uncle Sheldrake once, Dad tells me.”

“Sheldrake Gregory Watson-Holmes. I like that.”

“Good.”

And then Violet and Ford joined in the singing.

 

 


End file.
